Thief: Beyond the Shadows
by Battleship Toothbrush
Summary: Garrett is starting to think he'll never have to play hero again - until Caduca contacts him from beyond the grave to warn him of a perilous evil he's indirectly freed. The Hammerites are crumbling, Pagans are becoming ritualistic cannibals, the Mechanists are regrouping, and the Keepers are being hunted. All because a future curator discovered the Book of Primal. (First OC C:)
1. Prologue

The wind is still. Hasn't been so still for as long as I've lived. There's always a breeze blowing somewhere. But in this moment, as the demons of the Mau eclipse the dawn horizon, the world is still. A silent commemoration for all the Hag has corrupted and destroyed. The old witch weeps as iridescent shrouds alight with embers carried from the deepest pits of hell wrap her in preparation for a permanent burial.

Then, with a final cry, she's enveloped. A veil-like cocoon pulls her through the cobblestone like lava seeping through its cracks, disappearing completely within a minute. A cloudless sky begins to materialize out from behind the quickly evaporating pollution. I hear the slapping of shutters as the wind picks up again. There's a young girl standing out on her porch, a doll cradled close to her chest. The rest of the City watches in awe as the silver lining in the sky convolutes above us and abruptly shoots off towards the sun like a rocket. A flash of colors I've never seen before erupts across the horizon and particles of energy begin to rise up from the ground.

I should have guessed it would come to this. The only way to defeat the Hag was to exploit the very veins of the City itself and use its magic against her. After all, that's how she grew so powerful in the first place. I guess you could say I gave her a taste of her own medicine. Medicine that can never be used again. It's being sucked out from beneath us, gravitating into the sky to who knows where. It was all sucked out of its reservoir the moment I placed the artifacts in their slots on the fountain—it's the Heart of the City, I realize that now. The reservoir I was always meant to liberate.

The Keepers aren't going to be happy about this. Well, whatever's left of them, anyway.

I grimace. The Pagans and the Hammerites aren't going to be happy campers, either. After this, I don't think I'll ever be allowed within a ten mile range of their temples again. Well, at least they're free of zombies if I ever decide to return to them for something to pay rent with. But you know what…how are the Pagans and Hammerites going to live without magic? They've had it for as long as the City's been around, probably even before then. Some of them need it to keep themselves alive. Like Dyan. Damn. She's going to wither like a dead tree. I hate to say it, but I've kind of come to like that old bat.

Another flash of light pierces the sky and the particles shoot up through the atmosphere until they're only specks of gold glittering against a navy blanket. I would have enjoyed this more had I not been so preoccupied with my own thoughts. I just remembered what Artemis mentioned about the dispersion of the City's energy. Without it, the Keeper Library will collapse.

As if on cue, the ground shakes with tremendous force and a final Glyph materializes above my head.

 _Beyond_.


	2. The Bad News and the Good News

_A/N: Well, hello! First Chapter - bam! Hopin' that you're gonna enjoy this as much as I am! There's some cursing, mild violence, ect. BUT! M might be necessary for later chapters since I'm planning some fluff teetering on the edge of smut, possibly some less watered down violence, and also a bit of gore. The original trilogy isn't as violent as more contemporary video games, but there was a lot of disturbing shit goin down with or without gory graphics, so this story is gonna get dark. Dark as in disturbing._

 _So I think we can all agree on the opinion that FanFiction Summaries are usually uncreative shitfests that don't make a lot of sense since there's not really a lot of room to elaborate on the plot. No? Okay, maybe I just suck at being to the point._

 _Anyway, this chapter involves that 'future curator' I mentioned in that shitfest of a summary (I suck at summaries, sue me!). A better revision of the summary is:_

Garrett is beginning to think he'll never have to play hero again - until Caduca contacts him from beyond the grave to warn him of a perilous evil he indirectly freed after defeating the Hag. The dispersal of the City's magic has left its denizens desperately seeking for a new source of vitality and it's rumored that they've tapped into something that should have never existed in the first place. Whatever this darkness is, it is taking no prisoners, and we're not talking about drunken husbands this time. The Pagans have separated - some have stayed to care for the environment, but two subgroups exist beyond the City's walls and they are no longer interested in watering daisies. Now they live to plant those daisies. The Hammerite church is crumbling beneath the heel of anarchy and, in a last attempt of survival, have begun weeding out the Trickster's children. The Mechanists have suddenly reappeared on the scene - for what reason, Garrett wish he knew - and there's rumors of Karras' survival. There's also news of Viktoria's survival. But the most unexpected predicament Garrett could have ever fathomed was the group of time-traveling interns that tumbled into his arms - and their hopelessly romantic leader who might be more useful (and lovely) than he'd openly admit. All this because that damnable futuristic woman rediscovered the Book of the Primal.

 _Yeah, even THAT summary is a work in progress. Brownie points for trying! Thus, I introduce you to those 'time-traveling interns' and that ' damnable woman' - in her POV._

* * *

 **Chapter One: The Good News and the Bad News**

"We can't go in there! We'll get _arrested_!"

Jamie chuckles sadistically. "You scared of a couple rednecks, Mikey?"

"Look," Mikey pleads, "let's just all go back to the museum and we can, like, call the police or something. They can handle this!"

" _Fuck_ the police, dude—you signed up for this, you get what's _owed_!"

I step back from the stained-glass door, eyeing it skeptically. It looks like it's been stolen from the City Cathedral. I wouldn't be surprised, either; that ghost town is just a collection of loot now.

A shiver of premonition clings to my spine. Speaking of ghost towns, I've got a bad feeling about this place. And it isn't environmental. After all, a gigantic stone crypt looming amidst a haunted forest isn't exactly orthodoxly pleasant, but I have an odd fancy for creepy locations. I practically live for them. Unfortunately, however, I am a pawn of my curiosity and it completely dismisses whatever is trying to ward me off.

"Not so loud, kiddies," I sugarcoat. Reprimanding is a serious challenge of mine—every time I try, I end up saying things a lot less scornfully than I'd have hoped. "We're on a crunch for space here. I know we haven't located any guards nearby or anything, but just remember that it _is_ a concern, okay? The less attraction, the better."

"Director," Maggie murmurs on my left, "I've just received an email from Professor Arture. He's activated the Alert Mechanism: Sir Farluck will be returning shortly."

I hear the boys mutter explicatives behind me, but I turn them the blind eye and look to Maggie. Her expression is blank as those benighted emerald eyes of hers scan her tablet. A mannequin, this one. Can never tell if she's even alive or not. The cat's eye glasses are a nice touch, though. Very 70's. "How much time have we got?"

"According to the professor—" Her four-eyes whirl to address me. "Ninety minutes."

"Fuuuck," Jamie groans, "I thought he was gonna be there _all day_."

"As did the professor," Maggie admits. "It seems Sir Farluck noticed the Director's disappearance."

I chuckle lowly. Mikey shoots a fearful glance my way. I have a little bit tenancy for sounding maniacal when I laugh. "He's a smart fuck, isn't he? Knew I'd be commin' for my ransom."

"Why the chest?" Mikey cries. "Why the antiques, why the—why is it important? They're just, like, a thousand-year-old books, right? I mean, can't you just bargain with him or—"

"She tried, asshole," Jamie growls.

"Hey." I raise my brows warningly at him. "Be nice, okay?"

He rolls his eyes, but bites back whatever else he was about to vomit onto Mikey.

I appreciate Jamie's admiration and loyalty to me, but he can be pretty reckless when it comes to emotions. He's got a short-fuse capping his temper and is frustrated easily when the odds come in to play against him. I can understand his rationality, though: he's no-nonsense and is very serious about whatever he's dedicated himself to, attributes derived from a teenager's desperation to succeed amidst an abusive family. His parents had kicked him out when he was seventeen and Arture had found him living in the museum's cellar. The Professor must have seen potential in Jamie because he offered the kid a full-time paid internship. When Arture had told me he had a surprise, I hadn't expected a half-zombified kid to walk into my small office. Being the introvert I am, I was shy and nervous about accepting his help, but Arture had assured me I was more than ready to take on an apprentice. It wasn't his encouraging words that led me to accept Jamie's help, however. It was the emotional side of me that pitied Jamie, that wanted to see him succeed no matter what.

Ironic, isn't it? I wanted to help _him_ even though he'd been (technically) hired to help _me_. I guess that's just the kind of person I am: altruistic to a fault. Well, I don't believe that you can ever be _too_ altruistic, but the few close friends I have tell me I need to be more careful when offering my time to someone. They could end up being psycho and murder me or they could not do that and just leave me unappreciated. But I don't mind that. I want to help in any and every way I can. That's why I jumped on board with Arture, so that I could have the opportunity to protect others from the cryptids that lurk among us.

But if someone had told me five years ago that I would be working for one of the most dangerous branches of vocation, I would have told them either they were crazy or my life was going to _rock_.

"Why can't we just come back tomorrow?" Mikey mumbles irritably. He sticks his fists on his hips and glares out into the ominous forest. God knows why Farluck would want to build his empire out in the midst of an eerie jungle us natives call Elven Forest, but I kinda like it. Perfect location for a monster bash. "Miss—I mean, Director, can we just finish our fieldtrip somewhere else? Like _not here_? 'Cause, I mean, when you said we were going on a field trip, I didn't think you meant 'let's go steal some really old books from some psychotic client who is holding some of my stuff for ransom'."

I cackle in amusement. " _Touché_! We're not quite stealing it, though, since it belonged to the City in the first place. We're just retrieving it. Well, I _would_ have let him keep it had he not deiced to cheat me and violate my private bubble and take my favorite artifacts as hostages. Now it's personal."

Mikey opens his mouth to say something else, but Maggie beats him to the punch. "Director," she murmurs, "Forgive my interruption, but our main priority is now compromised by lack of time. I suggest finding a way inside before we are blind sighted."

The kids fall silent. "Well," I drawl, "I've got some good news and I've got some bad news."

"What's the good news?" Jamie inquires breathlessly. He's been on edge all day, so good news is like a cup-of-joe for him right now.

"The good news is, the stained glass isn't authentic." I approach the door again, this time stepping a little further to the right to reach a strand of ivy draped over the edge of the roof.

"And the bad news?" Mikey wonders hesitantly.

In answer, I wrap the ivy around my knuckles. Satisfied, I turn back towards the door and hurl my fist through the glass, splintering it in one lethal hit. Those three months of self-defense have done _wonders_ for my strength.

" _What the fuck!"_ Mikey exclaims incredulously.

I drop the ivy and reach for the inside lock. The metal is cool against my fingers and flips with ease. My other hand seeks the outside doorknob and I twist it, letting the heavy bulk of a door swing open on its own. The slight slant of the hill does wonders for gravity.

I turn back to the crew and flash them a jovial grin. "Mission accomplished! Now grab your shit and let's go, kiddies."

Maggie nods with a quiet, "Of course, director", completely business-like as usual, and taps a few things on the tablet before slipping it into her satchel and entering the building. Jamie follows suit with a wide grin practically splitting his face in half. But Mikey stands rooted to his spot outside, looking mortified.

"You just—I—why would you even—"

"You see any other way in?" I chuckle, gesturing for him to look around.

"But that's breaking and entering!" he shrieks, paling in fear. "You can't _do_ that, that's _illegal_!"

Jamie pops his head out of the doorway beside me. "Yo, Saint Mikey, could you keep the volume down on that megaphone of yours? You're gonna get us fucked harder than the metal box my brother sleeps on in Stonewall Prison. And lemme tell you, that shit is pretty damn hard." He looks pointedly at Mikey before delving back into the shadows.

Mikey shakes his head in utter disbelief. "You guys are _crazy_! I didn't sign up for this!"

I smile sympathetically. He really didn't know what he was getting into when he signed the waver at the museum last week. One of Arture's friends at the college in Audale introduced him to me and I assumed he knew what he was involving himself in. _I_ did. The City's got a lot of history, dating back to the very first nomads who adventured around the world several thousand years ago. With history comes great responsibility—and a million different artifacts created with purpose. They've long since been scattered around the country, most of them being located fairly close to home, and it's a mystery how they originally escaped the City. It's unclear whether the perpetrators were thieves or merchants or something else altogether; but, as a curator of the Audale Museum and associate of the Ministry of Repossession, I have dedicated my life to recapturing every elusive artifact that has been displaced from their pedestals at the museum for the last few hundred years. And finding my true love, but that will come in time.

Mikey probably hadn't even fathomed that criminal activity would be an integral nuance of this job. Well, not so much nuance. To me, at least. I simply find the artifact and retrieve it to take back to Arture. I'll be approached by clientele seeking for something rare to collect and I will begin an investigation into the whereabouts of the rarity in question. Then I will track it down, take it, and turn it in to the client—only for it to be recollected by a hired master thief to who returns it to Arture for one hell of a sum. That's how it works: get leads on an artifact through clients, make them believe it's theirs once you find it, let them keep it for the few days it takes to make a counterfeit, and switch the two. Mikey doesn't know about that minor detail, but I don't want to complicate things for him until he's ready to know.

"I know it's kind of unorthodox—" I begin.

"You don't say!" Mikey cries.

"—but it's the best shot we've got at this point," I continue with the need for him to understand. "We _have_ to get that book back, Saint Mike—I mean, Michael. What I guess I failed to share with you is that Farluck has no intention of returning it to us. I didn't want to freak you out, but maybe it was a mistake not telling you. He was a client, yes, but in the midst of the investigation, he stepped over boundaries we keep sacred to our cause and then attempted to murder one of the other curators when she told him his request had been revoked and the artifact would be brought back for the sole purpose of returning to the museum. It was completely against protocol to divulge to the client our true intentions, but she had done it anyway and nearly paid with her life."

Mikey looks shocked as he processes this. My stomach flops when I recall the blood splatter I discovered in Rosalind's office. She and I weren't exactly friends, but when she didn't clock out like she always did before dusk, I was curious. Her shuddering body had been visible through the glass panels on the sides of her door and I had spent a good minute trying to break inside after I realized the door had been barricaded. And she had been murmuring things I didn't understand.

"He had tried to beat her to death with one of the steal encasements. Just ripped a wall from the box and began bludgeoning her with it. The book we've been investigating was inside and he took it." I don't mention that Rosalind had also broken rules by undermining me and taking the book herself. "He didn't succeed in killing her, not that that's really much of a consolation. But he did something else to her. Whatever he did, he really messed her up. And we don't know if it's reversible."

Mikey shrinks back into his sweater and stares at something just over my shoulder. The towering gray building behind me is foreboding, especially with the setting it's been born into, but Mikey somehow looks calmer than he had been a few minutes ago just staring at it.

"What about us, director?" I barely hear him above the soft breeze billowing through the furs. "He did that to someone we _know_. Someone who maybe wasn't capable of protecting themselves from a six-foot-five psychotic terminator, but he still tried to beat her to death. And if he did that to _her_ , then what's he going to do to _us_ if he finds us?"

I shrug, bereft of logical lies to feed him. I can't say Farluck won't maim us or even kill us, but I _can_ feed him solace the only way I know how. With soft coaxing. "Then let's _not_ get caught. Waiting out here isn't going to speed us up or stop us from going in altogether, sweetheart. We need that book back. It's dangerous in his hands. Farluck is dangerous and definitely lethal, there's no denying it—but so am I when I have to be."

Mikey regards me silently, an apprehensive gleam in his eyes. I don't want to frighten him, but I sense that he's the kind of kid who can't accept sugarcoating. It's still a struggle for me to be so blunt—I hate tension and try to avoid conflict at all costs—so I only equip my deadly-serious psyche when I either know that the receiver in question is accustomed to that approach or when someone I know is in danger.

Mikey shoots one last longing glance at the forest before following the others into the building. He pauses beside me just long enough to murmur, "I don't know if I trust you, Director, but I'm willing to try," before stepping inside. I smile at the back of his flaxen ruffled hair before closing the door on ourselves.

Thank you, Mikey. I promise I won't let you down, kiddo.


	3. The Ugliest Hang from the Walls

_A/N: Thanks for readying, dudes! You rock!_

 _So if you don't quite understand the purpose of the switch in perspective (Director's POV), it serves as exposition into the preface behind how they came into contact with the Book of Primal - and as an introduction to the group. But if you are upset at the lack of Garrett thus far, have no fear. He will be returning_ very _shortly! C;_

 _-Toothbrush_

* * *

 **Chapter 2: The Ugliest Hang from the Walls**

"Ew!" Jamie exclaims, leaning closer to examine a deformed creature floating inside an odd glass encasement. "What the fuck _is_ that?"

Mikey moves closer behind him, catching a glimpse of the bizarre thing gleaming beneath the dim lighting of the laboratory. He scrunches his nose and backs away from the shelf, nearly knocking over another one in the process. I'm by his side in an instant and heave the splintering cabinet back against the wall before it squishes us both.

"Sorry, I'm sorry!" he gasps fervently, turquoise eyes apologetically wide.

I chuckle and give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Damn good thing I was here to save the day, huh? I'm glad you're not squished!" A timid smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

"Director," Maggie murmurs from behind one of the cabinets. I can barely see her peeking between the shelves, eyes obscured by the light reflecting off her glasses. "I think you should come and see this."

"Okay." I quickly round the corner of the shelf, scanning the oddities as I pass.

We'd been trekking through the bunker for at least last five minutes when we'd discovered a door barely stable on its hinges. When we'd kicked it open, it swung with a _hiss_ and revealed this damnable place. There are strange undecipherable books lying around on dusty end tables, crystal balls lying atop velvet thrones and organized on a particular metal bookshelf from smallest to largest. Others are lined with mutant experimentations or stacked with thick books. Or their spines, at least. Most of them have their pages ripped out. No surgical equipment or cots, but the shrunken heads and mutants—even a wired cap protruding with copper wires and jagged needles we could only assume were meant to be embedded within a skull—are enough to immerse us in a creepy-as-shit laboratorial setting.

I stand abreast Maggie and follow her gaze to a chair sitting in the back corner of the room. A metal cap like the ones barbers used to use hovers ominously over the back of the seat. It looks like an electric chair.

"Sir Farluck has disturbing preferences when it comes to taste in décor," Maggie murmurs just loud enough for me to hear her.

I nod, feeling disturbed just looking at the damn thing. I can practically see blood rusted on the backrest. Then, despite the dim lighting, a sinking dread fills me and I approach the pedestal it sits upon. I squint my eyes. Farluck hasn't used it recently, has he? Because that's not just blood on the backrest. That's recent blood. It's been somewhat absorbed by the wood, but I can tell that it hasn't yet been completely subsumed. It's a week old at the most.

"Director?" Maggie's call fluctuates with consternation. I turn back to her and regard her disquietly. Her four-eyes search mine for answers. She knows something's up, more so now that I've become quiet. I've made it obvious; there's no point in hiding my concern from her. She's studied criminology for almost as many years as I have. She'd figure it out sooner or later.

"Maggie," I whisper quietly so that the boys can't hear me, "we've got a problem." Her eyes narrow. "There's blood splatter on the backrest of that chair. And it's not dry."

Something shatters on the other side of the bookshelves, followed by a hoarse curse from Mikey. "Shit man!" Jamie barks. "It was right _there_ , how did you not _see_ it?"

"I—I just—oh, _shit_!"

Maggie and I quickly regroup with them. Mikey is kneeling on the floor in the process of picking up shards of glass, but he's still now, Jamie leaning silently over his shoulder.

"What the fuck _is_ that?" I hear Jamie whisper.

I approach them with a piercing sense of anticipation, coming to crouch beside Mikey. There, coiled in a heap on the floor, lies the dismembered and reassembled corpse of an infant burrick. I've only glimpsed them in the archaic volumes I'd discovered while on runs for the museum, but I'd figured they were just lore of the City. Of course, this could easily be a hoax or why-the-hell-even taxidermy, but only with further investigation can I reach a conclusive answer in regards to whether or not it's authentic. Gingerly, I creep closer and reach to roll it onto its back.

"Eugh!" Mikey recoils back into Jamie's legs, squeezing a hand over his mouth and nose. "What are you doing?! _Don't touch that!"_

Jamie scoffs a brusque laugh. "Meet the Director, Mikey."

"Does she always do that?" Mikey squawks, cringing further back as I run my fingers over the scaly stomach. "Touch dead, rotting corpses covered in disgusting, putrid body fluids?"

"As long as it's not a Neanderthal," Jamie divulges, "she's all right."

I almost shiver at the though. I'm deathly afraid of Neanderthals. Yes, it is a thing. Well, for me, at least. Maybe I'm just weird. Hell, who am I kidding—I'm the weirdest person I know. But corpses don't scare me; they were once living and breathing just like I am. I don't mind the guts and gore because I've been too well versed in them and I don't become nauseous when my hands are covered in blood and fluid because they just don't have that effect on me. I can't say why, it's just never bothered me for as long as I can remember. Probably has something to do with my insistent need to put people at rest. Whatever I'm examining was once alive and I hate the torrent of grotesque possibilities that wreak havoc in my mind when I wonder how they met their end. Was it painful? Were they conscious? Did they feel the excruciating singe of nerves as wave after wave of pain filled them until they were nothing more than a despondent husk? I dread to ponder it.

It's not death you have to fear. It's how it occurs.

"It's a burrick," I inform the others. "I've heard about them in old documentaries about the City, but the science community has labeled them as Crytpids. You know, like Bigfoot and Nessie. Paranormal creatures that aren't supposed to exist."

"Then this thing isn't real?" Jamie sounds disappointed.

I shrug. "Anything's possible. I've seen enough shit in my days to know. Some of us just haven't seen enough to believe that there's something else inhabiting our world. I'm not saying that it's magic or anything, but there sure are a lot of things that can constitute for it."

"So what's the diagnosis?" Jamie asks impatiently. "Is it authentic or what? It looks pretty fresh, right? I don't know what it was floating in, but it can't be too old or it would show signs of pruning or something."

"That's just it." I roll the burrick onto its back and examine its skull before determining, "If it's a hoax, then it's a damn good one. Judging by circumstance, though, I'm leaning further towards the authentic side. People don't just stuff taxidermic creatures into glass jars. That's only good for preserving something like this. It looks like they dissected it, sewed it back up when they were done, and encased it in that jar, probably as some kind of trophy. But according to what I've read, these things haven't been around for a couple hundred years. Not since the Mau closed off."

"The Mau?" Mikey parrots.

I forgot. Mikey isn't a native to the City. He doesn't know its lore or history as well as the rest of us do—he's only been here a month after transferring to the college in Audale. I guess they never covered the superstitious side of the City.

I peek over my shoulder. Jamie is gawking down at Mikey, completely flabbergasted.

"You don't know what the Mau is?" Jamie exclaims. "Dude, do they teach you _anything_ in college? The Mau is literally the most talked about legend here— _everyone_ knows about it, even the tourists! That's like goin' to Scotland and saying, 'What the fuck is a Nessie?'."

Mikey flushes and sheepishly repositions his glasses upon his nose. "We haven't gotten that far in class! The professor said we'd be delving into legends next week."

"Then pay attention, novice, because I'm about to drop Lore 101 on you and we're starting with the Gate to the Underworld," Jamie announces theatrically. I can't help but smile at the ignited passion gleaming in his dark eyes. "The Mau was a portal connecting our world to the World Beyond—Purgatory, the Spirit World, it's all the same thing. The gate was right out here in Elven Forest, but you wouldn't know it was there. Not immediately, anyway. You'd unknowingly walk into it because it looks identical to everything else. The further you wander into the Mau, everything becomes a shade darker; the darker the trees and leaves and grass and you'd never know unless you knew to look for it. But at that point, you've already doomed yourself. That's where the spirits live. And you'd better pray to the gods above that you don't come into contact with one or you're fucked.

They prey on the dipshits that walk through. If you're dumb enough to walk in, you're dumb enough to get caught. Those spirits don't care _who_ you are—if they find you, they'll rip your soul out and go to war over who gets the body. Whoever wins just earned a free ticket out of the Mau. It was a real problem for tourists a couple hundred years ago—it's always the shitting tourists—until the Pagans started guarding it. They were a religious group who worshiped anarchy and probably exercised filing cabinets. They were a creepy bunch, definitely not the Director's favorite kinds of people—" Damn right! "—but they were really fascinating because, well, they used plants to communicate with spirits. I'm not even joking, that was a thing that they did, and it worked. There was this chick that led the group—Viktoria—and she lived in the Mau. As far as we know, anyway. But then she died and the Mau closed up."

"According to recounts, anyway," Maggie adds. "Though the nuances of the Mau and its guardian are still not completely understood. There's a gap there that the texts don't explain. We know Viktoria was killed and the Mau began to close, but something ultimately sealed it off permanently from our world."

I return my gaze to the burrick. "Which is exactly why this thing shouldn't be here. The nobles used to hunt the hell out of these things while the Mau was still open. They'd hang their heads from walls like deer antlers. Pretty messed up to have something this ugly staring at you while you sleep. What's even _more_ messed up is that sometimes people kept them as _pets_. What a great gift for the kids. But after the Mau closed up, they completely disappeared, so it's theorized that they were either the lap dogs of the Mau or demon creatures."

"Then you think Farfuck somehow found himself a way to enter the Mau?" Jamie compiles incredulously.

"Ah, you have deciphered my sentiments exactly," I praise with a theatric demure. "Brownie points for you, Jamie. Yes, I think he somehow managed to access the Mau. By what means, I'd like to find out."

Mikey purses his lips into a dejected line. "Then we're not leaving after we find the books, are we?"

I smile apologetically at him. "Sorry, Mikey, but this is something I _need_ to investigate." I rise to my feet and wipe my hands off on my jeans. "You can stay here, though, if that makes you feel better."

He takes one quick look around the room and rockets to his feet. "Nope. No, I'm good. I'd rather not."

"Do we leave it there?" Maggie questions, motioning to the corpse littered with shards of glass.

I regard it pensively before using my foot to push it beneath one of the bookshelves. "That's a good place for it. Now let's go get this done."


	4. The Bad and the Ugly

_A/N: And we're back! Thanks for reading and leave some feedback if you're able!_

 _Thanks and enjoy!_

 _-Toothbrush_

* * *

 **Chapter 3: The Bad and the Ugly**

Farluck's office isn't what I expected it to be. It's charming, for one. I bet Farluck wouldn't look charming to a sex-starved prostitute with eight teeth missing. Okay, that was rude, I apologize for that.

But seriously, this place is remarkable! Golden walls splashed with sapphire curtains, mahogany desks poised atop maroon parquet tiles, and enormous bookshelves are stacked against every wall that isn't lined with antiquity, like paintings framed with gold and aborigine-looking masks. There's even a plague doctor hood towering atop a rod iron coat hanger. To top it off, as far as I can tell, everything congregated in this room is authentic.

"This is a lot more comfortable that I thought it was gonna be," Jamie sighs from across the room. He's sunken into one of the armchairs by the coat hanger. "Yo, Saint Mikey." He pats the seat beside him. "Come tell me a story."

Mikey takes one glance at that plague doctor hood and blanches. "How about I just tell you one from here? Once upon a time, there was a psychotic killer who found a group of criminals that broke into his office and he beat every one of them to death."

Jamie's lips purse in a mock pout. "Damn, I wanted to hear about how you became a pant-pissing mommy's boy. Is that a course they had at the all-girls school you went to?"

Maggie turns away from the conflict. Avoiding conflict is something she and I have in common, albeit we do so for different purposes. I avoid it because the tension is unbearably uncomfortable for me. Maggie avoids it because she finds arguing arbitrary. I suppose that's why Maggie has been so distant lately; all the boys have done since Mikey arrived is duke it out. I start to intervene, but I'm beaten to the punch.

Mikey rounds on Jamie, eyes blazing furiously. "Look, I know you don't like me all that much, but can you _stop_ making fun of me? Maybe I am a little bit of a baby, but that doesn't make me any less _human_ than you. There's always _something_ you're afraid of! Maybe you're terrified of your dad—I heard he abused you, right?—but I don't tell _you_ that _you're_ a baby for being afraid of him! What makes that any different from _me_?"

Jamie begins to rise out of the seat, infuriated that his dad's been mentioned, but this time I'm quicker and move to stand between them.

"Knock it off," I snap, "both of you. This is petty shit to be arguing over. I'm sorry," I add, feeling guilty for speaking so harshly, "but both of you are becoming a risk to each other and the mission. If you can't solve this peacefully, then I won't be bringing you along on any future excursions—" Mikey brightens, if only a little. "—and I'll cut your grades in half for failure of participation." Mikey deflates.

"Then why can't you just let one of the other curators babysit him?" Jamie hisses, still regarding Mikey with a venomous glare. Mikey flinches.

I whirl to Jamie, raising an accusing finger in his face. "You're acting like _you_ need the babysitting right now, dude."

His jaw clenches in attempt to remain stoic. I know my disparaging affects him deeply and emotionally, but I can't allow him to use Mikey as a scapegoat. It's been trouble for him since his father's imprisonment—blame others for his personal frustrations. It's never been as much a problem before, but Mikey _does_ embody many things Jamie dislikes. A major one being Mikey's proclivity to speak his mind no matter who he may offend. And Jamie absolutely _despises_ anyone who mentions his father.

"This isn't just a class, Jamie. This is a _team_. I was never the biggest fan of working in teams, either, but that has to change sometime. There's always going to be someone who pushes your buttons. And you can hate them all you want, kiddo, but it's not gonna solve shit for you later. It's just a lot of baggage you're going to be carrying around for the rest of your life and, someday, you're gonna realize that there's no one around to help you unpack it. And you can't blame someone else for you chasing them away."

I squeeze his shoulder affectionately, lowering my voice to a soothing murmur. "You're fueling these arguments just as much as he is. A man can fail many times, but he isn't a failure until he begins to blame somebody else. You can't antagonize Mikey because he's different from you, Jamie. He's just as much a part of this team as you are, kiddo, and teams work together, whether they want to or not."

Jamie refuses to meet my eyes. He's focused on a spot somewhere over my left shoulder, but there's an unspoken regret in his expression that tells me he's heard everything I've said and recognizes it as an unwelcome truth. Three years and now he finally looks like it's sinking in for him. Then again, I've never confronted him like this before. I dislike reprimanding anyone in front of an audience, but the situation is already stressful and it acted as a catalyst for my confrontation. Either way, this was inevitable. I have a habit of bottling things inside—something instinctive that I use to avoid conflict—but whatever I've bottled up has the proclivity of leaking out at odd times. This is one such occasion; I've been harboring this irritation directed at Jamie but haven't acted on it until now, until the situation catalyzed my emotions. I'm only glad I handled it so gently. I usually have a tenancy for exploding when I'm stressed and then I argue solely on how I feel. I'm pretty damn grateful that I didn't vomit all that on Jamie.

"We good?" I ask in hopes of lightening the mood. Jamie doesn't respond and he still won't look at me. I back away, allowing him time to process what I've said. I know better than to ask for him to apologize for his outburst, but it still hurts that he won't answer me. "Cool—so now we just need to find my shit and we can get the hell out of here."

"Thank _fuck_ ," Mikey mumbles.

"Director," Maggie calls from across the office. She's standing in the doorway to a connected closet of some sort. Mikey jumps as though he'd forgotten she existed. Maggie does that sometimes—pop up when you least expect her. She can be quite talkative at a logical standpoint, but she's more interested in observing, like some robotic alien incognito. Even I'll admit that she has her creepy moments. "I have located your trunk. Completely intact with nothing missing to the extent of my knowledge."

"My babies!" I exclaim mercurially, rushing to the claustrophobic sanctum of treasure. Just as she says, the trunk and books are heaped against the back wall amidst a clutter of jade dragons and painted clay vases. However, the stolen book is nowhere to be seen.

"We're going to forget about this just like _that_?" Mikey looks on incredulously like he's astonished that a trunk of books could be so much more exciting than the recent drama. Apparently he's not over it yet. "Sorry—but it's just—we were in the middle of something important that still needs to be solved—"

"I am not partial to your argument," Maggie interrupts coolly, "nor do I wish to be. Leave what has passed in the past."

"Don't patronize me, you—you _mannequin_!" Mikey counters angrily.

"Okay, okay," I shout as I begin restacking books within the trunk, "that's enough for one afternoon, okay kids?"

" _Stop calling me kid_!" Mikey roars. I groan and knock my head against the chest lid, feeling the familiar wave of guilt rise up inside me that returns whenever I've offended someone. A brief silence ensues before Mikey stammers, "I—sorry, I just—I'm sorry…I—Director?"

I turn to see him standing in the doorway, a good foot from Maggie as though he's trying to keep her at length. He flushes and I notice that Maggie is regarding him with her trademark leer. Bereft of physical emotion, but you can still feel it piercing into you like a laser beam.

"It's okay, Mikey," I chuckle reassuringly. "It was my fault, I shouldn't have acted so flippantly. We can—"

"No, no," Mikey objects, "I'm just being whiny. I'm being a baby, I'm sorry." He tucks his chin against his chest.

For a kid who can take criticism, he sure is emotional. I smile despite myself. Seems he can get as guilt-ridden as I do. I want to hug him—mutual comforting—but I don't want to make things awkward between mentor and student.

"No you aren't," I respond dismissively. Time to diffuse the tension, something I actually do very well. "No one here is. We're just all stressed out—it's been a really weird day and we're all a little on edge, so it's normal to explode. Once we're out of here and back safe and sound at the museum, I'll take us out for sushi or something. Sound good?"

Mikey brightens almost immediately and he offers a shy smile. "I'd like that. Creepy shit makes me hungry. At least this place is basically unguarded, huh? Oh—let me help you."

He steps further into the room and starts to assist in organizing the trunk; Maggie turns back to analyzing her tablet. I pat Mikey's back graciously. He hoists the trunk up with some initial struggling and helps me carry it out of the closet.

"Why the hell did he take _your_ books, anyway?" Mikey grunts. "Like, why ransom _your_ stuff? Why not the professor's or some other curator?"

"Wish I knew," I reply as we lay the trunk on one of the desks. "Of all the shit he could have taken, it had to be the books. Maybe he thought I had his book on me, but that wouldn't make sense since the books were still in my office when I left to check on Rosalind. You know what creeps the shit out of me? That he had to have taken my books _while I was still in Rosalind's office."_

"How did you know Farluck had them?" Mikey wonders.

"He called me up after I got off the phone with 911 and physically _told_ me that he had them." I shake my head at the recollection of his malicious voice rumbling through the receiver. "The asshat gave me two weeks ultimatum to recover that book he wanted. Called it the Book of Primal. But on the night of the twelfth day—yesterday—he decided that he'd been waiting long enough and thought that taking my shit would serve as a warning that I wasn't quick enough." I chuckle at the ridiculousness of his idea. I probably sound maniacal, but it's thrilling because it illustrates my vexation on a level the others can understand. "He's going to wish he didn't screw with me. I wouldn't be so pissed if he hadn't hurt Rosalind. But he did and if I learn that he's hurt Arture, too." I feel my expression darkening. "I'll blast a hole through his skull the size of the fucking underworld."

See what I mean about emotions leaking out at weird moments? I am genuinely _pissed_ right now—in rare form. I think I'm a pretty laid back person. In fact, I've been criticized for being _too_ laid back. But whenever I even _think_ that someone I know has been jeopardized, I transform into a crusading vigilante. There is no mercy where my family has been compromised.

Mikey flinches and steps cautiously back. Maggie raises her head from her tablet, a similar sinister gleam in her eyes. I've noticed that she reflects my emotions like this sometimes, like a poised mannequin. It's kind of inspiring to my temper.

"Is the book in there?" Jamie questions quietly.

I don't even have time to feel belated that Jamie's talking to me again—an alarming epiphany suddenly strikes me. Dammit to hell, why didn't I think of this before! I shake my head grimly. "No. He has it on him."

Mikey grinds his jaw in vexation, assuming that this means we're going to be staying even longer than he'd anticipated. "How do you _know_ it's on him?"

I damnably smack the lid of the chest. "That fucker _knew_ I was going to come here. Why else would he have taken _my_ things? No guards, unlocked doors. This was a ploy to coerce _me_ to come."

"For what?" Mikey gasps, flabbergasted. "Some kind of personal vendetta?"

" _Something like that_."


End file.
